


Blind Double Date

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Facebook Prompts [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF Anthea (Sherlock), Bachelor Auction, Blind Date, Charity Auctions, M/M, Mycroft's country home, POV Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 16:37:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14937968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: The woman standing before him was gorgeous, all curves and long dark hair – exactly Greg’s type of woman. She was vaguely familiar, but a lot of people here were, so he pushed it out of his mind.“Yes?” he answered.“I’m Anthea. I’ve just made the winning bid on you,” she said with a ghost of a smile.“Really? Great. It’s not weird to congratulate you is it, given it’s my company you’ll be getting for the evening?” Greg tried to make a joke. Given her restrained smile, he suspected it had fallen flat.“Not my company, no,” she said.“Pardon?” Greg asked, wondering if he’d misheard her in the steadily increasing noise.“I’ve bought your time, but not your company,” she repeated. “In fact, I have a further proposition for you.”





	Blind Double Date

**Author's Note:**

> For a facebook prompt:  
> Lestrade participates in a charity "win a date with" auction and is won by a very pretty lady...  
> Who just happens to have bought him for her boss, Mycroft Holmes...  
> Mycroft has no idea she has arranged a date with the man he has been not-so-secretly pining over.
> 
> Now [available in Russian](https://ficbook.net/readfic/7180774), thanks to RedGerbera - thank you!

“You owe me for this, Donovan,” Greg threatened, tugging at his bowtie.

“Come on, it’s for the Widows and Orphans fund,” Sally told him, with the same shit-eating grin she’d been sporting all week.

“Right, well I’m the boss and you still owe me,” Greg retorted as the emcee announced him and he strode reluctantly into the glare.

The lights were bright but the roar of approval as he made his way onto the stage made it clear most of the audience was still there and paying attention. Christ, he’d never live this down.

Ignoring most of what the man was saying about him Greg concentrated on not falling over or doing anything else stupid. The lights more or less blinded him, and the noise was loud – how the hell did the auctioneer know who was bidding? He resigned himself to waiting, smiling blandly out at the unseen crowd, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

Finally the crowd gave an even bigger roar and the emcee was saying his name and making little ‘go on!’ motions with his hands. A very relieved DI stepped back off the stage, blinking in the near darkness of the wings. He had no idea how much he’d sold for or who had bought his company for an evening. The crowd had been loud but Greg had been watching them drink for the last two hours, so it was possible he’d been sold for two-and-six to the vicar’s wife or something.

“DI Lestrade?” the voice came from beside Greg, and he turned, still blinking spots away.

The woman standing before him was gorgeous, all curves and long dark hair – exactly Greg’s type of woman. She was vaguely familiar, but a lot of people here were, so he pushed it out of his mind.

“Yes?” he answered.

“I’m Anthea. I’ve just made the winning bid on you,” she said with a ghost of a smile.

“Really? Great. It’s not weird to congratulate you is it, given it’s my company you’ll be getting for the evening?” Greg tried to make a joke. Given her restrained smile, he suspected it had fallen flat.

“Not my company, no,” she said.

“Pardon?” Greg asked, wondering if he’d misheard her in the steadily increasing noise.

“I’ve bought your time, but not your company,” she repeated. “In fact, I have a further proposition for you.”

“Really,” Greg said, his voice disbelieving. “Don’t forget you’re talking to a copper, will you?”

“No,” she replied. “I’ve bought five hours of your time, correct?”

“Yeah,” Greg answered cautiously. He hand the suspicion he was being set up for something here, but he couldn’t figure out what.

“Well, I’ve purchased your time for a…friend of mine. He is currently living considerably out of the city, and I would like to offer to compensate the charity for your travel time along with the five hours of time with my…friend.”

The way she said ‘friend’ made Greg wary. The idea sounded reasonable, though.

“Are we talking like, Manchester ‘out of the city’?” Greg asked. He wasn’t signing up for a whole day’s travel, even for the charity. He’d donate the extra funds himself if he had to.

“More…Brighton. Ish.” The answer was vague, but it gave Greg a ballpark, at least. A few hours travel in total, then. Not too bad.

“Fine,” he said. “I’m free next weekend. You arrange the travel and,” he shrugged, “I guess that’s it.”

“Of course, Detective Inspector. I’ll be in touch.” She took his proffered card and turned, walking away.

Greg shook his head. That was slightly weird, he thought, then shrugged it off as a waiter passed and offered him champagne. Whatever it was, he’d find out next week.

+++

_Detective Inspector Lestrade, a car will collect you at 11am on Saturday. Travel time is estimated to be one hour, ten minutes. A car will return you to your residence afterward. Anthea._

 

A car, thought Greg, staring at the text message he’d just received.

Fuck.

Well that explained why the woman was so familiar. Images of ‘a car’ waiting to collect him from various crime scenes flooded his mind. She worked for Mycroft. So was Greg going to spend the day with Mycroft? Or was it a fluke, and Anthea had another friend, someone Greg had never met?

He wasn’t sure which would be more agonising – five hours with someone he didn’t know and might have nothing in common with, or five hours with Mycroft and his suits.

Or not, a voice whispered. He’s in Brighton-ish. Out of the city, at least – he might be in something else.

“Christ,” Greg groaned. That was hardly better.

Mycroft with his shirtsleeves rolled up, Mycroft wearing jeans, Mycroft with _no tie_ … This was not better. Why couldn’t he have been bought by someone like Tom, the mildly attractive bloke who’d spent Thursday evening with Sally? They’d gone bowling, she said, and out for dessert. He wasn’t looking for a relationship, just a fun night. Easy, no strings, nothing weird about it.

Unlike this situation.

So Mycroft had made Anthea pay for Greg’s time. There were only so many reasons why someone would do that, Greg thought, and not many of them were likely. Why had the man not just shown up at one of Greg’s crime scenes? Surely if he had a question or something that would have been easier? Far less personal, too. This was more like Greg going to visit Mycroft on holidays or something. It was fairly difficult to label this ‘professional’ in any way. Greg didn’t know if that made it better or worse. More uncomfortable surely, but only because of how desperately he actually really did want to get to know the personal side of Mycroft Holmes.

+++

In the end he’d opted for nice jeans and a shirt, leather jacket and scarf. Kind of what he’d wear if he was going on a date somewhere in the country, not that he’d admit that. Having no idea what Mycroft wanted with him made it harder to dress, but if they were going to end up walking somewhere, he wanted to be at least a bit warm and comfortable. Not that any of this made him comfortable, but hey, if he could avoid wearing a suit, that was a bonus.

It took the estimated hour and a bit to arrive at a small cottage in a tiny village Greg didn’t even know the name of. He’d brought a book with him to pass the time and keep his mind from offering ever more outrageous reasons for this trip. The driver assured him it would be the same car returning to pick him up, so he left it on the seat as he stepped out, stretching his back as he looked up at the cottage.

It stood at the end of a lane, the only one on this side of the village, as far as Greg could see. It was a tenuous link to even consider it a part of the village; there was at least one field between the cottage and any other structure. Greg wondered if that was Mycroft’s personal preference or a security tactic, or a measure of both. Probably both, he thought, as the car drove away. The air was still and cool. Quiet, except for the distance sounds of the motorway and birds.

Taking a deep breath, Greg passed through the gate and knocked on the stained glass door. He wondered if it was bulletproof – could you even get bulletproof stained glass?

Before he could consider the idea any further, Anthea opened the door.

“Hi,” he said. “I didn’t know you would be here.”

“I won’t be for long,” she answered, allowing him in and hanging his jacket and scarf on a hook by the door. Greg had a quick impression of the entry before following her through to the back of the house. Polished wood, slate floors, comfortably lived in, he thought. Interesting.

“Another eager boy scout?” Mycroft asked without looking up. Greg couldn’t help staring. Mycroft was sitting at a table, as upright as ever, but to Greg he might as well have been caught in his nightclothes.

Mycroft with sleeves rolled up.

Mycroft with no tie.

Christ.

Greg swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably as he waited for Mycroft to acknowledge him.

“No,” Anthea said. “As a matter of fact, it’s for you.”

Mycroft frowned and glanced up before doing a perfect double take at the sight of Greg standing in front of him.

“Gregory?” Mycroft whispered, the blood draining from his face before rushing back with a vengeance.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade will be staying for luncheon,” Anthea said briskly. “Which will arrive shortly, code word Judas. A car will arrive to collect him in five hours.”

She stepped forward and picked up Mycroft’s phone and laptop; Greg was sure she whispered something to him before gathering his papers and leaving the room. A moment later they heard the front door open and close.

The house was silent as they stared at each other.

“She said something to you,” Greg said finally, with no idea why his mouth had decided that was worth commenting on.

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed faintly.

“You’re blushing,” Greg noted, and the words brought it forth even more fiercely.

“Yes,” Mycroft murmured, one hand to his cheek.

“I get the distinct impression you weren’t expecting me,” Greg said. That fact alone made the whole situation a lot clearer, and for some reason, gave him confidence. Mycroft wasn’t out to ambush him, recruit him or make him disappear. He had as little idea of what was going on as Greg did.

“I was not,” Mycroft admitted.

As Greg opened his mouth to speak, there was a knock at the door.

“Let me get that,” Greg said. Mycroft looked as though he still might fall over if he stood up, he thought amusedly.

“Mr Lestrade?” A woman in a starched white pinafore was at the door. “We are here to present your luncheon.”

“Ah, yeah, I’m Greg, this is the right place,” Greg said, a bit surprised that she knew his name. “Um, do you have the password?”

“Judas,” the woman said, as though there was nothing odd about needing a password. She was right, so Greg let her in, and she moved into the dining room with a familiarity that told him she’d been here before.

“Um, I’ll leave you to it.” Greg told her.

“Of course,” she said. “I will let you know when it’s ready.”

“Ta,” Greg muttered, flashing her a brief smile before heading back to the kitchen.

Mycroft was there, leaning against the bench, shoulders dropped, head low as though coaching himself through a difficult moment.

Christ, thought Greg, I think I’m the difficult moment.

“Mycroft?” Greg tried tentatively. The figure before him did not jump, but straightened immediately. After a few seconds, Mycroft turned to face him.

“I apologise,” Mycroft said. “As you determined, I was not expecting you.”

“Yeah, I think Anthea pulled a fast one on us both,” Greg said.

“Indeed,” Mycroft murmured.

“Do you know…why would she do that?” Greg asked tentatively. He hoped there wasn’t some highly personal reason and he’d just asked Mycroft to bare his soul, but it was a bit odd and he’d kick himself if he didn’t at least ask.

Mycroft looked at him, a level stare as he thought about Greg’s question. In return Greg’s eyes flitted about, unable to settle. As they did, he noticed Mycroft had crossed his legs at the ankle as he leaned against the bench, the hem of his jeans riding up slightly to show his striped socks.

Mycroft was wearing jeans.

He was three for three in ‘fantasies I’d had about seeing him at his country house’.

Hot damn.

Greg swallowed, dragging his eyes away. The striped socks were a surprise too. He’d always assumed Mycroft would own a dozen pairs of identical black socks or something. Nothing patterned. Nothing as interesting as stripes.

“Anthea is a gifted observer of people,” Mycroft said slowly.

“Right,” Greg said finally, wondering if Mycroft was waiting for a response.

“Before she left, she indicated that she had noted my…attraction to you.”

Greg froze. He forced himself to meet Mycroft’s eyes, felt his eyebrows rise at the determined honesty.

“Is that what she whispered to you?” Greg asked eventually.

“Not in so many words, but yes,” Mycroft said. “Given that she had taken action on this matter, and given your blatant reaction to my,” he looked down, raising an eyebrow, “jeans and socks?” – Greg felt his own face burn – “I will deduce that you are harbouring an attraction to me, and Anthea has observed as such. This would be her clumsy way of pushing us into each other’s paths in a social setting.”

“Right,” Greg heard himself say.

Fuck, she must be good. Or he was worse than he thought at hiding his attraction. God knew he was doing a terrible job of it now, not that it mattered any more.

Mycroft had just admitted he was attracted to Greg. The ball was in Greg’s court then. The fact that Mycroft was still standing on the other side of the kitchen made it clear that he wouldn’t be making the first move. _Right_ , Greg thought to himself. He cursed his lack of confidence to just walk over and kiss the man, but something told him that could be a catastrophic action. Better to go with the cautious approach.

“So this is a date, then.” Greg kept his tone light despite his thumping heart. “Because I’d be happy with that.”

Mycroft blinked at him. “As would I,” he said quietly.

+++

Lunch had been excellent of course; Greg had hoped that having something to do would calm a clearly very nervous Mycroft. He’d worked hard to make light conversation, avoiding Sherlock, talking about funny moments at work, how the auction night had gone, anything to keep Mycroft from shutting down on him.

And it was working. Mycroft had relaxed slowly, answering Greg’s questions and beginning to ask some of his own or offer tentative opinions on other topics. By the end of lunch – a decadent spread of antipasto and breads, dips, vegetables and cheeses – they were talking far more easily.

Mycroft, it turned out, had a wicked sense of humour; Greg had more than once snorted at the unexpected dry witticisms he would come out with. The gentle surprise and delight at this reaction made Greg think it had been a while since anyone had laughed at Mycroft’s jokes. Assuming he had someone to tell them to, he amended. He was good company, once he relaxed. Greg wondered how long it had been since someone had been patient enough to find that out.

“I couldn’t eat another bite,” Greg groaned. The food had been excellent and he’d indulged quite a bit more than he should have.

“We could go for a walk, if you’d like,” Mycroft suggested. “The woods near here are quite beautiful.”

“Sounds good,” Greg said with a smile. “If you could just point me to the bathroom first though?”

“On your right,” Mycroft said, directing Greg back out into the main corridor.

His bladder relieved and hair fussed over a little, Greg reappeared, smiling as Mycroft held his jacket out for him. It was charmingly chivalrous, he thought, watching Mycroft duck his head as Greg thanked him.

They made their way out of the cottage, Mycroft sharing details of its acquisition and subsequent overhaul. He was animated by the subject, and Greg found his gaze drawn to Mycroft’s hands as he gestured. The navy gloves fit perfectly, and Greg wondered how they would feel pressed against his skin.

Walking in the woods was beautiful; Mycroft had been right. After the third fallen log, over which they had helped each other, Greg wondered if Mycroft had made this suggestion on purpose.

He remembered as a young man suggesting outings that might offer the opportunity for casual touches. Stealing contact wherever he could, too nervous to make an actual move on his date. The idea fit, and when they reached the fourth log, Greg sat on it instead, silently praying it wouldn’t collapse under his weight.

“I know what you’re doing, Mycroft Holmes,” he said, heart in his mouth. There was still the possibility he was wrong, but he doubted it after their conversation in the kitchen, and the catch of breath he was certain came from Mycroft when his hands wrapped around the slim man’s waist at the previous log.

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft said.

“We are grown men with an admitted attraction to each other,” Greg said. “Which means I would rather do this than keep stealing touches from you.”

He picked up Mycroft’s hand, tugging at the ends of each finger until his glove came loose. Greg suppressed a smile as the glove was immediately claimed and stowed in Mycroft’s pocket.

Cupping Mycroft’s hand, stroking his fingers with Greg’s short, weathered ones, was heavenly. Greg was sure his skin was colder, not having had the benefit of gloves, but Mycroft wasn’t complaining, so he continued, stroking light touches all over Mycroft’s hand. Between his fingers was soft, there were freckles on his knuckles and a scar on his thumb.

“Blackberries,” Mycroft whispered as Greg’s touch lingered on the scar tissue. Nodding, Greg bent his head, kissing the spot without thinking.

The sharp indrawn breath from above made him pause; when Greg looked up, he saw with astonishment Mycroft tugging at his glove with his teeth, discarding it in the leaf litter. The other hand descended, wrapping around Greg’s neck, fingers caressing his hairline. He shuddered, closing his eyes; Mycroft’s touch was exquisitely soft and gentle.

Lost in the new sensation, Greg startled when he felt something press at his lips; it was Mycroft’s hand. A mute appeal to continue where he’d left off. Greg needed no further encouragement, kissing the pale skin, feeling the shape of Mycroft’s fragile bones under his lips. He mapped as much as he could – knuckles, tendons, the delicate web between thumb and forefinger, before the silence was broken by a groan – Mycroft’s – and a wild explosion of leaves and wings nearby.

Instinctively, Greg threw Mycroft away from the noise, covering him with as much of his body as possible. Almost as soon as they hit the softness of the fallen leaves, Greg knew he’d overreacted.

“Shit. Sorry. Sorry. Are you alright?” Greg thought he might be babbling but he wasn’t sure.

Mycroft was fine, from what Greg could see. They were both still sitting on the ground, covered in dry leaves.

“Sorry,” Greg offered weakly again.

“There are a number of pairs of pheasant in these woods,” Mycroft managed before breaking into a soft chuckle. “That was very noble, Gregory.”

“Stupid, I reckon,” Greg muttered, feeling foolish. “Kind of ruined the moment, too.”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said, lifting one hand to Greg’s face. “I’m sure there will be other moments.” To Greg’s astonishment, he leaned in, pressing a chaste but definite kiss to Greg’s mouth. It was warm but brief, and Greg found himself keeping his eyes closed as he savoured it.

“Good?” Mycroft asked, and the hesitance made Greg’s heart break just a little.

“Very good,” Greg murmured. “I’m just going to wait here for you to do it again, actually.”

He felt the gentle exhale of amusement, a brief brush of air before Mycroft kissed him again, lingering this time, allowing Greg time to adjust and reciprocate. Long slow kisses, deepening into an exploration of mouths and teeth and tongues, until their bodies were pressed as closely as two fully clothed people could be, sitting on the ground in the woods.

After an age of bliss, Greg felt his phone vibrate a split second before the alarm went off.

“Sorry,” he muttered, fumbling to reach it. He frowned, staring at the screen. “It’s not the alarm.” Greg chuckled and handed the phone to Mycroft. “Actually, it’s for you.”

Mycroft frowned, reading the screen.

 

_I have cancelled the car for this evening. You will find everything either of you should require at the cottage. I will see you at the Diogenes Club, 9am Monday._

_You’re welcome._

 

“Anthea,” Mycroft breathed.

“You’re kidding.” Greg couldn’t help be impressed. When the situation sank in, he tried to hold back his chuckles but they would not be restrained.

“Is something amusing?” Mycroft asked. His voice was stiff but one hand had found its way to the back of Greg’s neck again. A favourite place, Greg was thrilled to realise.

“I used to think you ran half the British Government,” Greg explained. “I think I got it wrong. Pretty sure Anthea’s the one in charge.”

“I would be offended at the idea,” Mycroft said, returning Greg’s phone to him, “if you weren’t so unfortunately correct.”

“Well since the cottage has everything we might need,” Greg said, “perhaps we could return there. You never know, we could end up scandalising the pheasant.”

“I hardly think we would scandalise anybody in a public woods, Gregory,” Mycroft protested, though he allowed himself to be pulled upright.

“You’ve never made out in the woods?” Greg asked him.

Mycroft bent to pick up his glove, examining the damage his teeth had done before placing it with its pair in his pocket. “Now I have,” he retorted.

Greg laughed and caught him in a hug. “Oh the things I can teach you, Mycroft,” he said, the joy of finding this unexpected happiness bubbling over.

“I look forward to it,” Mycroft murmured.


End file.
